


Silk Smile

by w_anderingheart



Category: EXO (Band), K-pop
Genre: M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 18:43:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4716572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/w_anderingheart/pseuds/w_anderingheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Twenty-hundred hours. Elysian Fields. Don't be late.<br/>18 months since his last one, Kai takes his next assignment and learns that the devil is just a fallen angel.<br/>(hitmen!au / mafia!au)</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twenty-hundred hours. Elysian Fields. Don't be late.  
> 18 months since his last one, Kai takes his next assignment and learns that the devil is just a fallen angel.  
> (hitmen!au / mafia!au)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cross-posting. original post date: 12/28/14
> 
> This is a sequel to [Amid Shadows!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4699559/chapters/10730864)

“This was a terrible idea.”

Snow crunches on the pavement as the car, sleek and black, pulls up in front of them. Winter is harsh this year. December has brought the cold full force and Jongin watches his breath string out in puffs of white that are almost as opaque as the snow.

He looks up into the grey sky. It’s Christmas soon but it doesn’t feel like it. Not out here. Yixing always knows how to find places completely detached from human civilization; kind of like his soul, Jongin thinks.

Two men step out of the car, and beside Jongin, Junmyeon  _tsks._

“See? He’s not even here himself,” Jongin says. He hates being cold. It makes his face red all over like he’s blushing from the tips of his ears to the apples of his cheeks. Jongin doesn’t blush. “Don’t you feel like he’s a busy parent and we’re the children he never makes time for?” he says again. Minseok, on Jongin’s other side, flicks Jongin’s forehead.

“Fuck. Ow?” Jongin glowers. Minseok takes a drag of his cigarette. It’s his third one since they got here, which means they’ve been waiting too fucking long. “Use words.  _Words_ , for fuck’s sake.”

“Shut up and stop complaining,” Minseok says. He taps the ash off the end of his cig, and Jongin watches it fall against the white snow like dead, dirty snowflakes. “You’re acting like a teenager.”

“Kai forgets proper etiquette when he’s been away too long,” Junmyeon comments. In front of them, Yixing approaches, Lu Han trailing close behind. He’s not even wearing a jacket as he follows Yixing through the snow with ease. “Minseok is right. You’re whining.”

“I’m  _freezing_ , that’s what I am,” Jongin says, but it’s mostly to himself because Minseok couldn’t care less and Junmyeon is already in business-mode.

Yixing smiles, that tight, small one, cheek dimpling in a way that makes him look so falsely innocent. He shakes Junmyeon’s hand, but no one else’s. “El Dorado has been in good shape, yes?” He tucks his thin hands into the pockets of his trench coat.

“We’re all right,” Junmyeon says, an understatement. They’re better than all right. Since El Dorado and EXO agreed to extend to a permanent alliance, activities have been flowing smoother than running water. Junmyeon can’t admit that, though. EXO is still their biggest rival so it’s not like anyone is going to be exchanging care baskets anytime soon.

“Hmm,” says Yixing, to Junmyeon. “I assume you already know what this is about.”

“ _I_  don’t,” says Jongin. Junmyeon either doesn’t hear Jongin or ignores him.

“Yes. It’s the growing dispute with the Lucifers, isn’t it?” replies Junmyeon. “I had a feeling we would have to approach this issue together.”

“What’s happening?” Jongin tries whispering to Minseok instead. The wind forces him to lean in right into Minseok’s ear so he can be heard, and Minseok smells faintly like mint under the cigarette smoke. “What have I missed?”

Minseok’s expression is pinched as he backs away to create his personal bubble again. “You haven’t been in touch for over a year, Kai. You miss  _everything_.”

“Yeah, so I’ve been told,” Jongin grunts. His mind is reeling through all the things he could have gotten done in the time it took to freeze like an icicle here. “I get enough shit already from Baekhyun and Sehun. Just fill me in.”

Junmyeon and Yixing are discussing the profit split. Lu Han sticks close to Yixing, snow catching the top of his hair. He’s dyed it dark, completely black; it looks almost strange against his pale complexion. The snow around them makes it look even darker. He meets Jongin’s eyes just once before he glances away, and Jongin wonders why he’s so quiet. It’s unlike him, Jongin thinks.

“The Lucifers are trying to expand and they’ve been causing quite big scenes in both Machine and The Black Pearl recently.”

Jongin laughs. “The Lucifers? I swear there’s only like three of them.”

“They’ve  _expanded_ , Kai. They’re a big group now and they’re looking for some of our turf.”

“Well, we do have the  _very_  best,” Jongin says, dryly.

“I have a feeling you’re really not taking this seriously,” Minseok says. He’s reached the end of his cigarette, and before he even snuffs it out, he’s already reaching into his coat pocket for his pack.

Jongin snatches it out of his hands. “I take my  _jobs_  seriously,” he answers. “So if there’s no job for me, I don’t need to be here.” Minseok wets his lips, his fingers fidgeting. Jongin raises an eyebrow. “Also, you’re chain smoking, you know that?” It’s one of Minseok’s stress habits.

“It just keeps me warm. Give it,” he tells Jongin, tersely. Minseok’s eyes flicker somewhere off to the side but he looks away before Jongin can follow his gaze. Then, he pounces on Jongin, taking his cigs back, and Jongin smells mint again.

They rejoin Junmyeon and Yixing’s conversation. “One of our rooms in The Black Pearl was bugged and Chen just informed me our phone lines got tapped. We didn’t want to risk getting overheard, so I decided to meet you in person,” Yixing says. Jongin bounces from foot-to-foot to try and get feeling back in his legs. He should have worn a scarf. Yixing’s round eyes fix on Jongin, sharp and pointed, and Jongin stops. “This is a more serious issue than you realize, Kai-ssi.”

“I’m sure it is, but  _you_  have to realize I don’t care unless it concerns me.”

“Why wouldn’t you care?” asks Yixing, words short and choppy under his accent. “Junmyeon-ssi and you share a father, don’t you? El Dorado is your gang just as much as it is his.”

Heat crawls onto Jongin’s neck, despite the gust of winter wind. “Look, I’m not—“

Junmyeon doesn’t even blink, even as snowflakes fall from his hair onto his cheek. “That’s irrelevant, Yixing-ssi. Let’s stick to the problem.”

There’s a certain way that Yixing curls in on himself, thaws a little in Junmyeon’s presence. It’s the cutting edge in Junmyeon’s voice that slices even the hardest rock, the iciest person. Yixing is cold, but Junmyeon always finds a way to be colder. And Jongin could never admit it, even with a gun to his head, but Junmyeon—handsome smiles and mild manners—scares the shit out of Jongin more than anything ever has.

“Where’s your leader?” Jongin asks. “The Lucifers are a huge pain in the ass, but he can’t even meet us himself?”

“Kris is in Russia at the moment, trying to secure a buyer. Our hitman, Huang Zitao, is with him,” Yixing explains.

Arms crossed against his chest, Junmyeon sighs. “You’d like to borrow Kai again, is that it?”

“Of course,” Yixing says, soft features impassive, “Once again, it’s for a mutual cause.”

Everyone’s eyes shift to Jongin, who leans against the hood of Junmyeon’s car in his bright red sneakers and puffy winter coat. He’s twenty-five and the youngest of them all, but he may as well be seventeen compared to their smart blazers and styled hair. Junmyeon lifts the cuff of his jacket to check the time on a wristwatch that is probably worth more than all of Jongin’s possessions combined.

“I don’t mind. Just let me know when and where I need to be,” Jongin replies indifferently. He retreats behind his poker face; a blank canvas without a paint drop of expression. He’s mastered it over the years. It’s the kind of expression you have to master, in this line of work, and he saves it for moments like now, where he knows Junmyeon is throwing a look at him, like he’s doubtful. Jongin’s last assignment… had been strange and could have also been a huge mess, and he had sworn off jobs since then for a long, long while. He thought that had been it—he could finally convince himself that El Dorado just wasn’t worth the mess.

But he had been thinking of the wrong kind of  _mess_.

Because something kept pulling at him inside. Something, obviously, keeps bringing him back; something too bright and loud to ignore. He sees it when he closes his eyes and in his mind, there’s an image of dull, bathroom lights and the smell of alcohol through short, breathy gasps. He feels himself getting pulled, pulled, pulled, further down that rabbit hole, except unlike Alice, Jongin knows exactly what is down there and so he can’t even say that it’s curiosity that drives him.

It’s something else that he refuses to acknowledge, even as heat sometimes flourishes low in his gut when he’s alone in bed—the sensation like a time-lapsed flower as it blooms.

“They need to be stopped while they still can,” Yixing says. “And by now, there’s only one way to do that, I’m afraid.” He doesn’t seem nearly as sorry as he sounds. Junmyeon sighs as if to say  _well, I suppose, if it can’t be helped._ That’s usually what he says about most things.

“The thing is, we don’t know the Lucifers’ base,” Yixing clarifies. “They’re so small, it’s actually harder to find information.”

Junmyeon knocks the snow off his hair, lightly, and pulls open the car door. “You’ll contact us when you do, then?”

Yixing nods. “I have Chen working on it. He can meet with Jongin sometime next week.”

“Wait. One condition,” Jongin cuts in and Minseok rolls his eyes. “I meet him somewhere public.”

“What? You still don’t trust us?” Yixing says, icily, still holding that dimpled smile. His careful fingers do up the top few buttons of his coat. He has nice hands, pretty like Baekhyun’s, except appearances are so deceiving and that’s a lesson Jongin has long learned.

“There’s no reason I have to meet him outside, like here, in the lot of an abandoned safe house,” Jongin counters. “EXO of all people should appreciate the idea of hiding in plain sight.” The Black Pearl is frequented by the richest Gangnam has to offer. Dramas are  _filmed_ there and it still hasn’t been busted once.

“Fine,” Yixing says. “Would you prefer Machine, then? Where you can be comfortably in your own turf?”

“Who in the world would describe Machine as  _comfortable?_ ” Jongin quips. Machine is popular, but it’s dark and stuffy and somewhere on the sketchier outskirts of Hongdae. He looks over at Junmyeon, who has only the slightest tension at the tip of his jaw. Jongin knows how to read him, though—the leader is growing impatient. Jongin hurries.

“Elysian Fields. The restaurant. Twenty-hundred hours,” Jongin decides. He kicks himself off the car as Minseok walks around to open the driver’s side. “Don’t be late.”

Yixing sighs with the impatience of someone that has a million other places to be; a quick exhale under his breath. “Fine. I’ll tell Chen.”

He exchanges a professional goodbye with Junmyeon, explaining EXO’s mode of contact considering phones are out of the question for the time being. Lu Han waits patiently for Yixing to finish, eyes fixed somewhere into the distance, at hills of snow lining the deserted streets.

Minseok throws his cigarette to the ground and Jongin feels like he’s watching something strange.

“Hey,” Minseok calls out, and Lu Han turns to face him. Lu Han has a really angelic face. Jongin remembers thinking Lu Han couldn’t have been a day over twenty when he first saw him. He also had a little playful edge to his eyes, a tinkling to his laugh, but Jongin doesn’t see that today.

Minseok glances at Junmyeon quickly, like he’s checking to see if he’ll notice. Junmyeon is still caught up with Yixing, though, and so Minseok jogs the little distance to Lu Han.

“Aren’t you cold?” asks Minseok. Lu Han shakes his head, a small, barely-there sort of movement.

Minseok pulls his jacket off and tosses it at him. His next words are in Mandarin which Jongin does not even understand, but he steps into the car to get out of earshot anyways, because it seems like he’s watching something he shouldn’t although he can’t figure out what.

In the car, Minseok turns the heater up and they drive away first. He smells like mint, but not real mint, Jongin realizes. It’s a light, airy cologne.

Except Minseok doesn’t wear cologne. Jongin looks over at him, and Minseok catches his gaze, shoulders tense.

A whole minute passes before Jongin reminds himself that he sticks to his own business, that everything else is irrelevant. A distraction.

“Junmyeon, I’ll need a bipod. Mine broke,” Jongin says and he pretends not to see Minseok exhale.

“I have some at Machine. Come by tomorrow night.”

 

 

-

 

 

Before midnight, Jongin parks on a side street and ducks into the club. He’ll never get used to Machine’s assaulting dubstep, no matter how many times he’s been here. It gives him headaches, the bass pulsing at the walls of his skull like a drumbeat.

The air in the club is thick, but not from cigarettes; it’s the heat of people waking up to the night life, sweating through heavy perfume and alcohol. Something about it always feels familiar, anchoring almost, as if it takes no adjusting to.

Jongin nods at Chanyeol behind the bar as he passes. “Yo. Look who’s still alive,” Chanyeol jibes, shouting over the music. “Stop being a stranger to me, Kai.”

Chanyeol is really affectionate, no matter how much time has passed. Jongin appreciates the way he’s like a breath of fresh air in a stuffy room. “You understand by now that I’d like to be as disassociated with Machine as possible. No offense,” Jongin says, and Chanyeol fake pouts. Although the club is Junmyeon’s, Chanyeol runs it. It’s his baby. “If it’s any consolation, I like you the best.”

Chanyeol laughs, barking loud. His hair is a turquoise blue, bright even in the shitty club lighting. “Better than Sehun?”

“Gross. Was that a question?”

“Well, hello to you too,” comes Sehun’s nasally voice from behind him. It’s not really nasally, but that’s the way Jongin hears it in his mind. Sehun slaps the back of Jongin’s head as way of greeting.

Jongin turns on Chanyeol. “You baited me on that one.”

Chanyeol shrugs, a smug smile, and goes back to his customers.

“Is it the apocalypse?” Sehun says theatrically. He’s gotten taller, which Jongin doesn’t think is fair because he’s pretty sure puberty has already ended for both of them and Jongin hasn’t grown an inch since he was eighteen. “Do my eyes deceive me?”

“Ha ha,” Jongin deadpans. On the other end of the club, the stage is lighted. Baekhyun’s performance has ended and the audience groans collectively. “Is Junmyeon in?”

“Nope. He went home, but he left the back storage room open for you,” replies Sehun. “You broke your bipod?”

“Yeah. And my guitar case is fucked up too, I just realized last night,” says Jongin. “Do you think you could lend me your spare?”

Sehun hums. “What spare?”

“Oh, shut up. Give it to me by tomorrow. I need it.”

“Maybe you would have all your gear in order if you used it more often,” Sehun retorts and Jongin sighs.

“I’m not in the mood for this, maknae,” says Jongin, and pats Sehun’s head sagely. He ducks out of Jongin’s touch.

“You’re never in the mood for anything. Ever,” Sehun points out. “And we’re  _three months_ apart, you little shit.” Jongin makes a face. Sehun pinches Jongin’s cheek. “Also I’m taller.” A half-hearted fight ensues, in which Sehun is mostly just batting away Jongin’s light punches.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” Baekhyun floats over to them, smelling like hairspray and men’s cologne; not a distinct one, more like multiple ones put together. Maybe Junmyeon has him doing extra tonight. “Always good to see your face, Kai.” He pecks Jongin’s cheek and Jongin knows he’s just looking for a reaction, but Jongin reacts anyways.

“My ass is a virgin and it’s not about to lose it to you, Byun,” Jongin says, nose scrunched. From behind the bar, Chanyeol emerges and grabs Baekhyun’s wrist.

Jongin stares at their locked hands for a second, at the hard creases between Chanyeol’s eyebrows and at the way Baekhyun smiles up at Chanyeol through fluttering eyelashes, and like most things that don’t concern him, Jongin doesn’t say anything about it.

“Classy outfit,” he says instead, and Baekhyun grins. The glitter of his eyeliner catches the strobe lights.

“Why, thank you, Kai.” Baekhyun puts his hands on his hips, the bells of his Santa hat jingling. Aside from green suspenders and shiny booty shorts, that’s about all the clothing on his body.

Jongin flicks Baekhyun’s forehead fondly and Chanyeol, with a tight smile, snakes his impossibly long arm around Baekhyun’s waist, hauling him away.

“I’ll text you my address,” Jongin says to Sehun and retreats under the ‘Employees Only’ rope at the back of the club. The storage room is large. Mainly because sometimes the stuff they store isn’t just lightbulbs or drinks for the bar. He doesn’t go back here very often. It’s usually only Chanyeol, and maybe Junmyeon on the days Junmyeon isn’t wearing his expensive slacks.

When Jongin opens the door, though, he isn’t expecting to see Minseok and he definitely isn’t expecting Lu Han. The single, naked lightbulb casts a dull yellow tint on the room. Jongin grabs a flashlight off the nearby shelf and coughs.

“I just need to grab a bipod,” Jongin says, skirting the edge of the wall to keep his distance. “I’ll be out in a second.” Lu Han’s slim fingers are laced, relaxed, around Minseok’s forearm, and Jongin hadn’t noticed they’d been standing so close until Minseok steps away.

Plucking the first one he sees off the shelf, Jongin bows a little at them and heads back to the door.

“Kai,” Minseok calls, voice a notch quieter and less terse than what Jongin is used to hearing. Minseok fumbles for words; another first from him. “You. I mean—can I trust that you—“

“I didn’t see anything,” Jongin says, licking his lips, and he closes the door before either one of them has time to say something more. He thinks Lu Han’s eyes soften, but none of that is Jongin’s concern.

Except the tense air and yellow lighting makes Jongin think of bathrooms and large eyes, and later that night, he dreams, once more, of full lips and a deep, playful voice whispering  _“Kim Jongin”_ right into his ear.

 

 

-

 

 

With a  _click_ and a twist, Jongin has his rifle assembled just as quickly as he’s always been able to. It’s strange, the way muscle memory works; like nothing is ever truly forgotten. It’s a scary thought, almost, that no matter how hard Jongin could try, his hands would never forget how to slide the silencer attachment to the tip of the barrel.

Fresh out of the shower, the metal is cool against his skin. Familiar. He sighs, squinting an eye through the scope of the gun.

“Oppa! Someone’s here for you,” Seulgi calls from the kitchen and Jongin starts. He makes a half-ass attempt to shove the rifle under his bed, although he doesn’t usually let Seulgi into his room anyways.

“Don’t get it!” Jongin hollers, slipping a shirt on. Seulgi is laying dinner out on the table, last night’s Chinese takeout, but she always goes the extra mile to make them feel like it’s a little bit more.

“I know how to answer the door,” she sulks, frowning. Jongin smiles thinly and ruffles her hair. “It’s like you forget I’m twenty.”

“You’re always five, in my heart,” he says sweetly and she fake gags. “Can you go into your room for a few minutes? This’ll be quick.”

“How come you never introduce me to your friends?” she complains. Her hair has gotten long, dyed a mahogany brown, down to her waist. There’s a sharpness to her eyes from a well-shaped eyeliner. It makes her look her age.

Jongin swallows around all the things he could never, ever tell her, even when she’s thirty, forty, fifty. “They’re terrible,” he replies, lightly, which is enough for her to sigh, stalking off to her room.

Jongin opens the door, and Sehun sashays in with a large grin, carrying more in his arms than Jongin had asked him for. “I just needed a guitar case,” Jongin says.

“Yes, but Elysian Fields is like a rich-people restaurant,” Sehun says. He thrusts a duffel bag at Jongin. “Those are some of Junmyeon’s old dress shirts. He told me to give them to you.”

In his mind, Jongin tries to see his half-brother in a moment of charity but somehow, the image doesn’t quite form. “He just doesn’t want me showing up in sneakers and my one discounted Stussy sweater, that’s all,” Jongin murmurs. He throws the duffel bag onto the cracked leather couch. “Tell him I’ll return the shirts when I’m done.”

“I think he meant you could keep them.”

“I don’t want to.” The spare guitar case is strapped along Sehun’s shoulder. Jongin pulls it off him with a little huff. “Thanks. I’ll see you next week? Or is it Minseok?”

Sehun rocks back and forth on his feet as he paces the tiny living room. The apartment is so small, though, that the living room is basically also the dining room and kitchen, all combined into this one space like a shoebox. Jongin shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny. Over ten years they’ve known each other, and Sehun has never seen Jongin’s places. Mainly because Jongin makes the effort to avoid such circumstances.

But time does create natural bonds, to a certain extent, even for people like Jongin and Sehun; because even though Jongin’s never once called Sehun a friend aloud, there’s some invisible line between them that keeps some sort of connection tethered to their consciousness. They know how to read each other, and Jongin can tell by the way Sehun eyes the apartment curiously but says nothing.

“It’s me,” Sehun replies. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “It was originally Minseok backing you but he asked for a relief of the position all of a sudden.”

“Hmm,” Jongin says. “Okay.”

“Weird, though, isn’t it?” Sehun grins, cheeky, that playful glint appearing in his eyes as he smiles. “What do you think Minseok-hyung is up to? He’s been weird lately, hasn’t he? Since after he came back to us from EXO. I bet he’s out doing some shady shit.”

For a second, Jongin sees a glimpse of Lu Han’s soft eyes in dull, yellow lighting.

“Our whole  _lives_  are shady, Sehun,” says Jongin, shaking his head. “Maybe he just wants a break.”

“Uh, no,” Sehun scoffs. “You’re the only person who takes ‘breaks’. Junmyeon spoils you like that.”

“Stop talking about Junmyeon. And I am  _not_ spoiled.”

Sehun pins Jongin with his dead-eyes stare, but as gut wrenching as it is, Jongin doesn’t succumb to it. He’s seen it enough times to immunize himself from it, like humans and small pox—eventually it stops affecting you. “Only because you refuse to use your share of the claim on El Dorado’s profits,” Sehun points out. Technically, Jongin and Junmyeon are supposed to have an even 50/50.

“I use the money I earn and that’s all.”

‘Use’ may be the wrong word, though. Jongin stores it away, in Seulgi’s bank account, in modest amounts so it doesn’t raise any red flags. It’s all he can do for her, at this point.

Seulgi’s bedroom door squeaks open, and Jongin sighs. “We’re almost done, I promise,” he says to her, stern.

She doesn’t retreat back into her room. Instead, she plays with the ends of her long hair—flowing like a curtain over one shoulder. “Hello,” she greets Sehun, bowing. “I’m Jongin’s sister.”

“Oh. Yes,” Sehun smiles, a small, reserved one that Jongin’s seen on his face approximately zero times in ten years. “Nice to finally meet you. My name’s Sehun.”

“Um. Seulgi.”

She’s blushing. Jongin feels a headache coming. He bites his lip and steers Sehun out the door. In the hallway, Jongin huffs, hands on his waist.

“Okay, calm down, mama bear,” Sehun teases. “I was just being polite.”

“Sure.”

“She’s very… pretty. You never told me that.”

“Right,” Jongin says. “Because I forgot that was the top of the priority list for our discussion topics.”

Sehun taps his foot impatiently. “Whatever. Don’t forget to text me the time and place; and bring your A game.”

“I don’t have anything less.”

“I know, I just meant—“

Jongin stills. The muted shades of the walls in the bland corridor wash out the colour from their faces. Sehun looks paler than he already is. His thin lips press together in a line, and Jongin’s eyebrows furrow.

“What?” Jongin prompts. He thinks he knows where this is going, and he should turn around and end it now. But he doesn’t.

Sehun’s tongue darts out, wetting his lips. “Last time, there was that whole… ordeal, and it was just… so strange. I don’t understand,” he says, quickly, all in a rush. He sighs, and shrugs. “You’re usually a total rock, Kai. I was so confused; I never thought a single person could throw you so off-course.”

Against the carpet, Jongin is barefoot. His toes curl, like he’s trying to grasp the earth for balance. He needs sleep. Real sleep, preferably—not the kind of sleep filled with vivid, tangible dreams that leave Jongin’s skin sweaty and tingling.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jongin says, and he watches Sehun’s shoulders fall, as if Sehun had been expecting a real answer.

The moment passes, and then there’s just an odd understanding in Sehun’s look that’s both relieving and unsettling, like Jongin is grateful that so much of what they’re thinking can be transferred wordlessly. But also it’s frightening, Jongin thinks, that he’s not as good at hiding parts of himself as he thought he was.

Because something about Sehun’s look is too searching.

“You know that Chanyeol and Baek have been hooking up, right?” he asks.

Jongin blinks. “So?”

“Well, they’re just so much… softer now, did you notice? Attraction makes people vulnerable like that—not that… it’s bad,” Sehun amends hastily. He frowns, like he’s just not quite sure where he’s going with this. “I meant that I think… attachment… it knocks down a person’s walls.”

A storm unleashes somewhere in Jongin’s head, a hurricane of too many things all at once. The worst part is, Jongin doesn’t know where shelter would be in his own mind—doesn’t know how to brave the storm. “Honestly, this poetic shit is making me question if you’re the real Sehun,” Jongin says, and he feels like he’s choking on the words.

Sehun’s gaze is a spotlight and Jongin craves the darkness all of a sudden. “You and him—did something… were you two—“

“It’s snowing badly out there, Sehun,” Jongin says. His mouth is on autopilot, detached from the rest of his body. “Rest up so you’ll have energy on the job.”

“Yeah,” Sehun says. “Okay.”

They share a look. A short fragment of time seems to freeze, goes stagnant as Sehun swallows and nods, and Jongin doesn’t know why Sehun is nodding, but it means he is acknowledging something; it means Sehun reads Jongin like a book and Jongin only wishes that he were a lot harder to make sense of.

 

 

-

 

 

Elysian Fields, tucked away on a busy street corner, is in the middle of the dinner rush. A simple jazz trio sets the soundtrack of the night. The saxophone soars over the music, as if the piano and drums are just the backdrop of a bigger picture. Jongin tries to anchor himself onto the flow of the sax solo, tries to find the ambient clutter of dishes and chit-chat as an extension of the percussion.

It only works a little. Mostly, all the noise is setting him on edge. The later it gets, the more uneasy he is, shifting back and forth in the cushiony chairs. There’s an endless list of worst-case scenarios running through his head, driven greatly by the fact that Chen has never not been on time. He’s usually punctual, down to the millisecond.

Except twelve minutes past 8PM, Jongin is still alone at a table for two. His phone rings in his pocket soon after, and he is ready to explode.

“You better have an amazing fucking excuse.” His voice dips, splitting itself between quiet and threatening. It’s Junmyeon on the other end, sounding as haggard as Jongin has ever heard him.

“You’ll have to take that up with Yixing, not me,” Junmyeon replies. “Chen hasn’t shown up, has he?”

“No, and I’m not wasting a single minute more on this,” Jongin says. A waitress slides over two glasses of cold water onto the table. She smiles at him, thin, but doesn’t meet his eyes. “Get me some answers.  _They’re_ the ones who called  _me_ out.”

“There’s a bit of an issue. Chen just boarded a plane to China.”

“To  _where_?”

Faintly on Junmyeon’s end, Jongin hears the dubstep track that accompanies Baekhyun’s dances. If Junmyeon is at Machine, it means he’s working. It means there’s business to smooth out. “Apparently EXO has a more urgent matter there—finalizing an arms deal,” Junmyeon says.

“So what? Is there still a job for me to take or am I free?” Jongin sighs, eyeing the water in front of him. Condensation trickles down the side. It looks cold and refreshing in the stuffy restaurant.

Except the glass closer to him looks a bit more—

“No. Stay there. EXO would have contacted me if plans had changed,” Junmyeon says. “Someone should show up.” The pulsing dubstep on his end gets louder. Jongin thinks he hears Chanyeol  _whooping_ in the background, and Jongin’s head  _hurts_. The noise clashes with the music in the restaurant—a blend of pounding bass and jazz. It’s not good. “I have to go make sure the Lucifers don’t trash us tonight. Tell me how it goes.”

When the line clicks, Jongin curses. He runs a hand through his hair, groaning. Compared to the other guests, Jongin wonders how dishevelled he looks. He had made at least a little effort, slipping into one of the only pairs of slacks he owns and a button down Junmyeon had sent him.

Jongin tilts his head. The tint of the water glass is still bothering him. Too opaque. It could be a trick of the light, but Jongin is far too wary tonight to believe that. He pushes the glass away, and sips from the other one.

“You’re sharp.”

Somewhere halfway down his throat, Jongin’s water comes to a screeching halt, like the cogs in his brain, like his heartbeat in his chest.

Alarm bells go off in tandem, as if a domino has just been toppled over and the rest of the train is falling in a quick, gut-wrenching drop. It’s a voice so deep and heated, it makes Jongin’s blood boil, his nerve cells lighted into a burning fire.

“Sharper than before, it seems.”

Jongin feels rigid. He couldn’t turn around even if he wanted to. He doesn’t want to.

“Miss me?”

He wants to.  _Kim Jongin_ , he hears in his mind, low and breathy.


	2. Chapter 2

D.O. places a warm hand on Jongin’s shoulder as he slips past him and slides into the free chair. The hand is there for just a second, a single, fleeting moment, and yet Jongin can’t stop the fever rush, the temperature spike that starts somewhere low in his insides, carves a hot trail up his stomach and around his neck.

The heat clumps there, squeezing around his throat as if to choke out all his secrets.

“El Dorado is looking good,” D.O. says, small smile stretching plump lips. “Profit loss was settled nicely, I presume?”

He’s wearing a black blazer, and the collar of his white shirt is unbuttoned and open. There’s a peek of his collarbones. Jongin blinks, a strange feeling on his tongue, tingling and numb like it’s fallen asleep the way a foot can when the blood doesn’t circulate properly.

“Will you even answer if I asked how you found me?” Jongin’s voice feels like gravel when he speaks.

D.O. grabs the glass of water Jongin had taken, and sips it. “Maybe,” D.O. replies, licking his lips and it’s totally a conscious thing, the way he flicks his gaze up to meet Jongin’s, as if to gauge Jongin’s reaction. Jongin locks his jaw and bites his tongue to stop the crawling heat moving upwards to invade his face. Jongin doesn’t blush.

“Only if you tell me how you got past the water test,” D.O. says.

“You honestly  _spiked_ my water?”

With a tiny smirk, D.O. shrugs. “Just to see if you’re more attentive nowadays.” He has narrow shoulders but the fit of his blazer outlines his build perfectly. “I would say you’ve gotten better,” he says, steepling his fingers. It’s taunting.

“I’m waiting for someone,” Jongin says, trying to focus on the airy jazz music again. It’s light and pleasant. On any other day, in any other place, he would enjoy it. “You need to leave.”

D.O.’s smirk broadens, like he’s looking at a chessboard and Jongin’s king is out in the open. “I said I’d see you around, didn’t I?”

“What do you want?” Jongin asks, setting his jaw, gritting his teeth.

The saxophone soloist ends with a flourish and is met with applause. D.O. keeps his large eyes fixed on Jongin. It’s unnerving. Jongin’s knees bounce under the table. “Chen is in China,” D.O. says.

Jongin’s eyes curve into slits. “How do you  _know_ that?”

D.O. laughs, lightly. It sends a jolt down Jongin’s spine for a moment, a lightning bolt; a frozen drop of liquid ice. “EXO sent me here in his place.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Jongin leans forward in his seat. The jazz music has stopped. He doesn’t like the thread of silence that follows, the thickness of the air between them. Or maybe it’s just Jongin who finds it hard to breathe, a pressure on his lungs like he’s suffocating. A painless sort of suffocation, though.

Maybe it’s that thing D.O. does with his lips as he laughs.

“Look, I’m not here to fuck with you,” D.O. says. The way he smiles is too gentle. But D.O. isn’t gentle. D.O. is the hardest rock, wrapped up in a gentle exterior. A trick. All of Jongin’s walls are up like a concrete fortress. “I was just offered a job, same as you. I need to make money too, sometimes.”

Jongin presses two fingers to his temples, willing away the headache. “EXO enlisted your help again?”

D.O. hums, devilish under the round eyes and soft cheeks. “They enlisted yours too, didn’t they?” he says. The Christmas lights strung overhead reflect in his dark pupils; stars in a night sky. “We’re the best of the best, Kai.”

“We’re not—“

“Just pretend I’m someone else if it bothers you that much,” D.O. sighs, almost impatiently. Jongin bites his lip. “EXO hired me because I used to work with the Lucifers for a time.”

“ _You_  worked for the Lucifers?”

“ _With_ them,” D.O. repeats. “I worked  _with_ them, when they were just starting out. After that, there was a falling out with Lee Jinki, the leader. He wouldn’t listen to my suggestions for running the gang.”

“So you have intel on them.”

“Intel? I have more than that. I know everything—their hideout, the core members. I also know the perfect day to carry out the job, when only a handful of them will be at their place.”

Another waitress comes by with two glasses of red wine. She smiles at them as she leaves. When Jongin doesn’t move, D.O. rolls his eyes and takes a sip from both drinks in a showy gesture. Jongin makes sure he sees him swallow, then raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not splitting the money with you,” he says with a finality. He swipes a wine glass for himself. “Just so you know.”

D.O. shakes his head. “Always the money,” he scoffs, but with no malice. Not even judgement, Jongin thinks. But D.O. is a hard person to read, like a book written in another language. Jongin will never understand him. “Don’t worry about that. We have separate paychecks.”

“Then, fine,” Jongin shrugs, empties his wine. “Just stay out of my way on the job.”

With a small finger, D.O. traces the rim of his glass. Jongin’s eyes follow the slow circling motion before darting back to match D.O.’s gaze. It’s back; the amusement—that secretive, knowing smile pulling his lips again. It’s like watching butter melt; creamy, thin. “Maybe you’ll have to stay out of mine, Kai,” D.O. says, voice just as smooth as his smile.

Jongin tastes wine at the back of his throat and plastered to his teeth. He thinks of the last time he had had alcohol with D.O. He thinks, then, of bathrooms and warm breath dancing delicately against his ear, his neck. “For the record,” Jongin swallows, “I do not trust you.”

“That’s not news for either of us,” D.O. murmurs. He brings his wine glass to his mouth, looks up at Jongin through those dark eyelashes.

“You spiked my water,” Jongin reminds him. “You’re not really earning anyone’s trust here.”

“No, I spiked  _one_  of the waters,” D.O. counters, lightly. He licks away the wine as he sets his glass down. “It was a test. For fun.”

“For fun,” Jongin repeats, tone hollow like the pit of his stomach. “And if I failed, I would have died. How nice of you.”

It’s a trick of the light, Jongin tells himself in the moment, the way D.O.’s Adam’s apple pulses once too largely against the skin of his throat. He blinks, and his eyes are suddenly both very far away and stiflingly close. That pressure builds up in Jongin’s lungs again. There’s a tightness to his insides.  _Kim Jongin_ , he hears— _feels_ —against the shell of his ear. Dull bathroom lights. Breathy gasps. Coiled heat.

“No, I would have…” D.O. trails off, like the gaze in his eyes.

“What?”

The jazz trio starts up again for their second set. It’s sharp, cutting right through the air between them. D.O. looks at the table, tapping his knuckles on the glass top.

“Nothing,” he says. “Let’s discuss the plan.”

 

 

-

 

 

Three guitar cases are thrown into the trunk of Sehun’s silver Ford. It’s a cold night, snowflakes light and drifting. If Jongin was watching from his apartment window, it might even be pleasant.

“How cute,” Sehun says, sticking his keys in the ignition. “We could be a band on tour.”

He’s not in his apartment, though. Sehun’s car smells like cigarettes and leather, and thick tension.

“Let’s think of it like that,” Sehun says, as he turns off city streets.

“Would be easy. If the cases held actual guitars,” Jongin murmurs, the last words exchanged for a good half hour. Most of the trip is the sound of the heater and pop music over the radio on low volume. In the back seat, D.O. is still and quiet, watching the blurry view pass by the window. Their eyes meet only once in the passenger seat mirror. Jongin looks away first.

Another half hour later, at midnight, D.O. falls asleep. Jongin tries not to glance at him too often or else—

“So that’s him, huh?” Sehun asks.

Jongin follows the floating path of snow flurries outside. The heater is on too high because Jongin feels that crawling warmth again. “What do you mean?” he says, throat heavy.

Over the radio, Girls’ Generation comes on and Sehun turns the volume up. Jongin watches his narrow eyes flick up to the rear view mirror, glancing at D.O. He stirs in the back seat, but only for a moment. Sehun hums along to the music, taps his fingers off-beat on the steering wheel. There’s that tightness to his jaw again that Jongin doesn’t like.

“I can see why you like him,” Sehun says, later.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“He’s not at all the way I imagined ‘D.O.’ would look like, after all this time.”

“Really.”

“He’s cute,” Sehun says. Jongin’s cheeks are red from the cold because Jongin doesn’t blush.

“You know that I wouldn’t—“ Sehun starts, then stops. He’s not good with words. Jongin is glad he isn’t. Otherwise Sehun would have articulated by now all the things Jongin prefers as incoherent, jumbled messes that he can sweep up into a back corner of his mind, so that he never has to think about it.

Eventually the dust would settle, a thick layer of it, and Jongin could pretend it hadn’t even existed in the first place.

“Baekhyun and Chanyeol aren’t so bad together, I’ve realized,” Sehun tries again. Jongin’s mouth is dry. “You know what I mean?”

Jongin knows what he means. But he also knows why Minseok meets Lu Han in a locked, dimly-lit storage room—people like them have to protect their weaknesses. They’re shadows; working for the light, but never in it. Jongin is not about to tie any knots to this life.

“This is it,” Jongin says, pointing to the dark outline sharpening as they approach. Sehun slows down and parks at the edge of the road.

“There’s a fence,” he mumbles, squinting. “No barbed wire, though. And barely five feet. We can hop it, easy.”

“Or just pop the lock.”

Sehun shrugs. “I’d rather not leave any mess,” he grins at Jongin in the dark. “Come on, boy. Don’t be lazy. You’ve got legs—use ‘em.”

D.O. rouses as the car comes to a halt. They pull their guitar cases from the trunk and strap the rifles across their chests.

“Pistols?” D.O. holds out two in his hand.

Sehun shakes his head. “Thanks. We have ours.”

D.O. throws one back into his guitar case, and slides the other into a holster at his waist. His white button down is wrinkled from sleep and a long drive. When he rubs the fatigue out of his eyes with a knuckle, it brings him down a few years, reminds Jongin of a child instead of Asia’s infamous hitman.

They climb the fence without a scratch. “I’ll go scope out the perimeter,” D.O. says, trudging up the low incline of the road, up to the warehouse. The windows are lighted, and two cars are parked further up ahead. People are definitely there.

“Shouldn’t we go together?” Sehun asks.

“We will. But we shouldn’t go in blind,” D.O. replies. He slides the silencer onto the barrel of the rifle, with a quick flick of his wrist. “I’m thinking of worst case scenarios: if I’m seen, I won’t get shot on sight.” He wipes his hands on his slacks. “You guys, on the other hand, are strangers. Come get me if I’m not back in five minutes.”

His footsteps are silent as he goes. The wind whistles loudly. Out here, there isn’t much wildlife. There isn’t much of anything. Cold, Jongin wraps his coat around tighter and leans against the fence. It jingles under his weight. Sehun watches him quietly when he thinks Jongin doesn’t notice.

“Do you trust him?” Sehun says, nodding up at D.O. “He could be fucking us up, you know.”

Jongin sighs, a long exhale. He should have slept in the car but for some reason, he couldn’t. He’s scared of waking up and realizing things were all dreams. “Yeah,” Jongin replies. “He could be.”

Sehun raises an eyebrow. His eyes are searching again. “But you still trust him?”

“It’s—“ Bathroom lights.  _Kim Jongin_  and warm breath. A gentle smile over a glass of wine. Too gentle. Jongin doesn’t know what’s real. “It’s not trust.”

But Sehun doesn’t ask anything more. Maybe it’s to be polite. Maybe it’s that he already knows.

Time melts a little as they wait, gets measured instead with every gust of wind and floating snowflake, and a loud, loud silence.

 

 

-

 

 

Five minutes on the dot, D.O. is walking back down the path towards them, sliding a little on the ice as the hill declines. He’s unscathed, smiling.

“Lee Jinki is in there, with only four other guys,” he reports. “Just like I suspected.” He’s not wearing gloves. His hands are a bright red from the cold. “The rest of the place is empty. We’ll be good.”

“Aren’t we still outnumbered?” Sehun points out.

“Kai and I will line up a shot on Lee. Sehun-ssi, you aim for whoever’s closest to the door. We can make a run for the car, then. In the dark, they won’t be able to see us if we’re fast enough.”

“Is there a plan B?” Sehun asks. D.O. raises an eyebrow at him, and Jongin laughs once, throwing an arm around Sehun’s shoulders. “Scared, maknae?” Jongin jibes fondly, digging knuckles into the top of Sehun’s hair.

Sehun nails him once in the stomach with a bony elbow, and D.O. smiles at them, hard expression lines softened. Jongin presses his lips together and swings his rifle. They jog up the pathway, and he follows D.O., crouching in the shadow of a car by the window. Sehun lines up at the adjacent one.

Jongin squints through the scope of the gun. His fingers are tense on the trigger. He craves a cigarette. But something warm curves around his wrist then, and, as if reflex, his muscles relax. Beside him, D.O. is quiet, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the window, but his hand lingers for a second before he drops it. Jongin swallows around the lump in his throat.

It’s not the job that’s nerve-wracking. Jongin doesn’t get nervous about jobs. The cool metal of his rifle is familiar against his skin; molded into him like an extension of his arms by now. Jongin is a rock.

But D.O., as always, is the hardest rock of them all.

Sehun throws them a thumbs-up, and D.O. nods. With his free hand, he counts down from three.

At  _one_ , their bullets fly as if released by the same person. Total unison, a single slice through the air.

But then, Jongin realizes in the half second that follows, maybe they did need a plan B. Tall and burly, the man closest to Lee Jinki tackles his leader to the ground and both D.O.’s and Jongin’s shots embed into the wall behind them.

The next second that follows is slow and long, as the moment sinks in like hot liquid, boiling their bloodstream.

“Fuck! What happened?” They throw their rifles back over their shoulders. It’s loud inside the warehouse with yelling and clambering. Sehun’s shot happened to hit. The dark-skinned man by the door is down, leaving four.

D.O. curses under his breath and stands up. “They know we’re here. At least, Kim Jonghyun seemed to realize. Maybe he saw us just in time to get Lee covered,” he says. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead; his skin looks smooth and soft in the moonlight.

Jongin looks away, standing up with a sigh, and rolls his neck to get the kink out. There’s only one way now.

Sehun groans, exasperated. D.O. steps around a bank of snow and motions them towards the door with a little jerk of his head. His small hands release his pistol from its holster and, with a chilling sort of calmness, he pulls the magazine in and out with a click. The locking sound is loud in the darkness.

“Grab your handguns,” he says, and the set of his jaw, the mild press of his lips, reminds Jongin just exactly who D.O. is. “We’re going in.”

 

 

-

 

 

The moment Sehun kicks the door down, they dive for cover behind a towering stack of crates. Jongin clenches his hands into fists—open, close, open, close—to loosen the muscles. Beside him, D.O. has already nailed the tall, burly man—Kim Jonghyun—in the head.

“You all right there?” D.O. calls at Jongin, as he ducks behind the crates again. Jongin curses and takes a shot at the slim, blonde guy several feet away. He gets his shoulder.

“Fucking fantastic,” Jongin retorts, teeth gritted, “having the time of my life.” He’s perfectly capable without anyone’s concern, and takes another shot at the blonde guy, as if to prove his point.

“That’s Kim Kibum,” D.O. says. A few metres away, Sehun is wrestling a gun off another man. Jongin shoots at the man’s arm, and he snaps back, off of Sehun and Sehun thanks him with a half-hearted thumbs up. “Aim lower on Kibum. He’s got a busted kneecap,” D.O. explains to Jongin, then makes a run for the neighbouring stack of crates, sniping down Sehun’s opponent as he goes.

Jongin lines up his next shot. Lower, lower, he pulls the trigger, and the man stumbles with a cry. As he falls, Jongin gets a shot at his head. There’s a quick spurt of red, eyes rolling back a bit, and then it’s done.

“Let’s go, Kai!” Sehun calls out to him, waving a hand. “Lee’s on the move!”

Lee Jinki reloads his gun with a lock, throwing the empty magazine out. It clatters to the floor noisily as he runs, turning back for just a second to shoot aimlessly behind him. None of his bullets hit any of them. Sehun ducks, sprints, and catches up with Lee before he’s able to reach the back exit. Snaking an arm around Lee’s neck, Sehun pulls up in a chokehold. Lee sputters, hand wrapping tighter around his gun.

The air is heavy in the large warehouse, each noise ricocheting off high ceilings and steel beams. The grey lighting washes everyone out. D.O. looks impossibly put together, not a hair out of place.

“You—“ Lee coughs. Or at least, tries to. Sehun tightens his hold. “You little shit. I knew you’d fuck us over one of these days.” He’s burning holes into D.O.’s soul except Jongin doesn’t think Lee realizes that nothing leaves a mark on D.O. Everything seems to bounce off him, like the ricochet of noise in the warehouse; like light against a mirror.

“Ah, well,” D.O. says. He takes two steps forward. The heels of his shoes click, loud and imposing, as if to embed his very presence into each step. “You were always a good guesser, Jinki.” In a flash of movement, the pistol in his hand twirls around and the butt of the gun meets Lee’s skull with a hollow bump. Jongin thinks he hears bones break, louder than the sound of gunshots.

It doesn’t leave Lee unconscious, though. His eyes blink slowly, weakly, and he spits blood as he glares at D.O. “What is it you gained from this assignment?” he says, so quiet under a laboured breath that Jongin has to strain his ears to hear him. “Why’d you take this job, huh? Don’t say money. We both know you’re rolling in fucking dough.”

There’s a twitch at D.O.’s jaw, a muscle that moves at the corner of his mouth. “I’m going to put this bullet through your head now,” he says, expression tighter than the mild monotone of his voice. His gun cocks, the magazine clicking into place. “So I suggest you stop talking before your last words become something really stupid.”

Lee’s eyes, barely open, travel away from D.O. “Nice company you got here,” he says, voice breaking sharply like glass. The way his gaze fixes on Jongin is even sharper. “Real pretty boys.”

Jongin levels his gun with Lee’s temple. There’s a split second of confusion as Sehun tries to keep the chokehold, but Lee wriggles out of his grasp and then suddenly, the pistol in his hand is raised and Jongin is staring right at the tip of the barrel.

“Fucking—shit, get down!”

It’s D.O.’s voice, higher-pitched, coming from somewhere else. Jongin loses sense of time again as it all happens, body and mind detached, like he’s watching himself experience it from another place. D.O.’s lithe little figure moves—a blur from out of the corner of Jongin’s eye—and then, he’s right in front of him; arms rising, enveloping Jongin’s body, pushing Jongin down.

The concrete of the floor is hard and cold when Jongin falls into it. There’s a gunshot, then Sehun swears loudly but all noise is muffled. Jongin doesn’t feel anything except the warmth of D.O.’s body over his.

Another cry from Sehun, the blunt sound of gun hitting skull, and again, a gunshot. Jongin is having a hard time concentrating on any of this, though. The way D.O. is breathing against him, haggard and out of time with his own breaths, makes Jongin clutch onto him, as if D.O. is an anchor and Jongin is afraid he’ll sink.

“Sehun... ssi,” D.O. rasps. His words are garbled, scratchy like he’s just swallowed down a cup of gravel. “Nice hit.”

There’s the sound of hurried footsteps running towards them, like panicked percussion to the sad ballad of D.O.’s breaths. Jongin’s stomach flips. The echoing of the two gunshots ring again in his mind, and he knows what has happened with a sudden, sickening lurch. Jongin waits for the pain. For the sharp, heavy feeling to bloom somewhere on his body.

Except it doesn’t. He waits a second more and nothing happens. There’s only D.O.—D.O.’s warmth, his breathing, his lips touching a spot at the side of Jongin’s neck as he lays on top of him, perfectly still.

“ _Shit_ ,” Sehun says, much closer, and Jongin feels like he’s resurfacing from the bottom of the ocean. The world comes back to him, sharpening the blurry edges. Time resumes and Jongin doesn’t think he likes it.

Sehun is pulling D.O. off of Jongin, and as Jongin sits up, he sees the pool of blood, the blossom of red soaking D.O.’s white button down. It’s a dark, alarming shade—almost maroon. In Sehun’s arms, D.O. looks pale, ashen and washed out even more from the grey of the warehouse.

“Well, fuck... This is—fuck,” Sehun rambles, throwing D.O.’s limp body over his back. “Come on, let’s haul ass, Kai. I don’t want him dying in my car.”

Jongin bites down on his lip, tastes blood. “He’s not going to die at all. Take us to a hospital.”

“Are you  _fucked_?” Sehun holsters his gun to free his hands and readjusts D.O.’s body. “We don’t  _go_ to hospitals, Kai. We’ll get him to Minseok and then Minseok will get him our doctor, same as always.”

“He’s going to bleed out!”

“Hospitals have paperwork and questions! He’s got a fucking gunshot wound. They are going to  _ask_!” Sehun says, frustration building at his hairline in drops of sweat. “You  _know_ this, Kai. You know the protocol. I’m not going to break it.”

Jongin pulls D.O. off of Sehun, gently. Blood drips dark and thick onto the concrete, and Jongin sees bathroom lights again. Red; the colour of coiled heat in Jongin’s gut if that sort of tight feeling could have a colour associated with it. He sees D.O.’s lips and he tastes D.O.’s tongue at the back of his throat but also, Jongin sees the way D.O.’s mouth curves when he smiles, how his eyes can soften at the corner.

Red on white, the blood continues to seep through the button down. Jongin swallows down the panic.

“He’s going to a hospital, Sehun,” Jongin whispers, because something about his throat feels narrow and clogged. He blinks up at Sehun, and there’s something implacable—a flicker of emotion, maybe a shadow, or maybe nothing at all—that flashes across Sehun’s face. “Please,” Jongin says. On his back, D.O. shifts. His arms come up slowly, up Jongin’s and then circling around Jongin’s neck.

This time, the tightness between Sehun’s eyebrows smooths out. When he blinks, gaze flicking between Jongin and D.O., there’s a new expression there. Jongin thinks he knows what it is and really shouldn’t like it, but right now, D.O. coughs weakly, feeling cold against Jongin. He grips Jongin’s neck tighter, as if seeking warmth.

They jog out to the car. Sehun climbs up the fence first and breaks the lock with three loud shots. The sound echoes out here, in the middle of nowhere. Jongin will worry about it all later.

“I’m staying with him in the back,” Jongin says as they pile in and Sehun pushes 150 on the speedometer.

It’s the worst kind of quiet as they drive. Jongin wraps a makeshift bandage around the wound, ripping material from his undershirt, and keeps the pressure there. He can’t even tell if it does anything for the blood flow, but eventually, D.O.’s breathing isn’t as broken.

“Jongin,” D.O. whispers, twenty minutes later as they’re already pulling onto city streets. Jongin’s chest constricts, gut clenching so hard it knocks a breath out of him. He finds D.O.’s hand in the dark and squeezes.

“I’m here,” Jongin says. He ignores Sehun’s eyes flicking up at them through the rear view mirror. “I’m here, Kyungsoo.”

 

 

-

 

 

Later that month, Sehun drives Jongin to an El Dorado safe house. Girls’ Generation plays again over the stereo system, full volume this time, but Jongin doesn’t mind. Sehun sings along with it, off-key and voice cracking at the high notes, but in most ways, it relaxes the tension in Jongin’s shoulders as they drive. He knows Sehun’s doing it on purpose. And it helps.

Junmyeon’s reprimands bounce around Jongin’s head for a bit. He hadn’t been pleased about the hospital incident. Jongin isn’t even sure how Junmyeon had weaved his way out of that, but it must have worked because Jongin’s only punishment had ended up being that he wouldn’t be told where D.O. was being kept to recover.

Sehun had told him the next day where it was, anyways, and Jongin, although not dwelling it, had realized Junmyeon hadn’t really given a punishment at all, then.

“It’s obvious, you know,” Sehun says, when the safe house comes into view. “I’d never seen you like that around blood before. And we see our fair share of blood.” A short laugh. It trails off, like it’s unsure of its place in the conversation. “It was… weird, almost—how you lost all that stoicism.” It’s snowing again today. It’s been snowing a lot, lately. Jongin remembers it’s Christmas. He’ll have to buy Seulgi’s present later.

When Jongin doesn’t say anything, Sehun turns the volume down on the stereo. The space of the car feels smaller all of a sudden, as if the music had been filling in the gaps until Sehun had found his words.

“Stop with all the cryptic shit. It doesn’t make you sound wise,” Jongin says, deflecting.

They pull into the driveway but Sehun doesn’t unlock the doors. “Look, I know you know what I mean—“

“I really don’t—“

“You fucking do, you little shit,” Sehun sighs, throwing his hands up. Jongin looks out the window but Sehun keeps going. “For some reason, you’re under the impression that people will give a fuck but honestly, it’s really obvious, Jongin, and you know what? No one gives a fuck.”

“Don’t call me ‘Jongin’, you brat.”

“Zero fucks,” Sehun says. “Seriously.”

The doors unlock with a click, but Jongin doesn’t move. Neither does Sehun. They watch the snow gather for a bit onto the windshield. It’s the prettiest kind of snow, the kind that glitters. Maybe it’s the stupid Christmas warmth making its way into the car through the heaters, but Jongin wipes his hands on his lap and smiles over at Sehun with a shadow of gratefulness.

“Do you mind… if I see him alone?” asks Jongin. Minseok comes out on the porch, zipping his coat up.

“You do what you got to do, Kai.”

Minseok nods at them as they step out of Sehun’s Ford. They trudge through the snow in non-waterproof shoes. On the porch, Jongin smells mint.

“How’s D.O.?” Sehun asks, stomping his feet to shake off the snow.

“Good. He’s itching to get out of here, that’s for sure,” Minseok replies. “Lu Han is in there, keeping an eye on his bandages.”

Sehun frowns. “Have we adopted this Lu Han guy, or what? He’s always around us now.”

Jongin pockets his hands. “Anyways,” he says, loudly. Minseok smiles at him, small. “See you, Minseok.”

Inside, Sehun hangs back in the living room wordlessly. The small space smells musky and the beige walls are a strange colour, like a dirty white. As Jongin climbs the creaking steps up the stairs and down the hall to a single bedroom, he starts to catch Lu Han’s minty cologne.

“Hey, Kai,” Lu Han waves at him and crosses the room. “Wondering when you’d visit.”

“Is he awake? Can I…”

Lu Han smiles. “All yours,” he replies. “Did Minseok step out?”

“Yeah,” Jongin says. “Why? Lovers’ spat still not resolved?”

“Oh. No, we’re fine now,” Lu Han says. He walks past Jongin, then freezes at the doorway. “Wait a second, you—“

“My lips are sealed, Lu Han,” Jongin grins. At the stool by the bedside, he sits and pats D.O.’s hand gently. D.O. opens his eyes, squinting at the light in the room. The colour is back in his cheeks. Jongin’s chest lightens.

“So are mine, Kai,” Lu Han says quietly, closing the door behind him.

 _It’s obvious, you know_.

Jongin shakes his head. His hand lingers too long on D.O.’s, but before Jongin can pull away, D.O. latches onto it, smiling.

“Merry Christmas,” D.O. says. He sits up, and the hair at the back of his head is tousled messily. Jongin smooths it down with his free hand.

“Back at you,” murmurs Jongin.

The room is a little cramped now that Jongin glances around it. Plain drapes and light beige walls like the ones downstairs. The bedspread is a single blanket and a pillow. “The doctor said I could leave by today,” D.O. says, watching his hands in his lap. He smooths down the wrinkles of the blanket.

“You’re not in pain?”

“Not anymore.”

Their gazes travel to the window, almost in unison. The curtains are half-closed, but the sun shines through them in full force. It’s strange, the way the snowflakes continue to fall anyways, glittering under the light. Jongin looks back at D.O., who’s still watching the sky outside. “I don’t understand you, you know that?” says Jongin.

D.O. reminds Jongin of silk sometimes; shiny and cool and smooth under the fingertips, but very, very strong. It’s a different kind of strong than Sehun who carries perfectly in a fight, or even than Junmyeon—ice cold smiles. D.O. has both those things too, but he also has a lustrous quality Jongin can’t place. A natural magnet, almost.

“I never really wanted to be understood,” D.O. says, a while later. “If that makes sense.”

For a moment, Jongin thinks of the way Sehun stared at Jongin in his apartment, or in the car just a few minutes ago. That knowing look, like he had found the secrets of Jongin’s diary and understood them all. It was an odd, unsettling feeling, to think Jongin’s fortress—made of his smart remarks and stoicism—hadn’t been as heavily guarded as he had thought it was.

“It does,” Jongin says.

“I don’t understand you either, for the record,” D.O. turns his head back to watch Jongin, carefully. Jongin feels like he’s being picked apart. “You… say you don’t trust me, then all of a sudden I hear you brought me to a  _hospital_? What the hell was that?”

Jongin sighs, shrugs, runs fingers through unwashed hair. “You would have died.”

Maybe the answer’s too offbeat. D.O.’s eyebrows pull together, like that wasn’t the reply he was expecting. It wasn’t the reply Jongin had planned on giving either. But it was the instinctive one.

Jongin watches the flux and flow of D.O.’s expression. There’s a strange colouring to his cheeks now, a warmth dusted across his pale skin. Jongin doesn’t know what to make of it—a trick of the light, feverish side effects from painkillers. The reasonable list runs through his head.

“You were worried about that?” D.O. says, face decidedly blank, although he doesn’t meet Jongin’s eyes and once again, Jongin is left with that lost feeling, like he’s reading an untranslated book.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jongin says.

“I thought…” D.O. swallows, a noticeable thump at his throat. Jongin realizes how expressive his eyes are—large and rimmed with long, thick eyelashes. They demand so much attention, take up so much of his tiny face. There’s a lot of unreadable parts of him—untranslated—but his eyes give away so much of his thoughts. It’s why Jongin notices he doesn’t always look at anyone directly, all the time.

If eyes are the window to one’s soul, D.O.’s eyes then are huge, floor-to-ceiling windows. The longer Jongin stares, the more he feels like he’s watching D.O.’s foreign book get deciphered, translated. When D.O. blinks first and looks away, Jongin sees Do Kyungsoo in the next moment—just a man in bed, tired and conflicted, with a past and a story and a mom and a dad and maybe a sibling.

“I don’t know,” Kyungsoo sighs, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. They’re face-to-face now. “Whatever. I’m out of here.”

Jongin doesn’t see a hitman and he doesn’t see snipers and handguns and fake guitar cases. He probably doesn’t see a good person, either. He can’t, possibly. But he also can’t say he’s good himself. Who even qualifies for that anymore?

Do Kyungsoo is D.O. and kills people. But D.O. is Do Kyungsoo, who jumped in front of a bullet without a second thought.

Maybe it doesn’t matter, Jongin thinks. The moral gauge broke a long time ago for both of them. It could have never existed, to begin with.

Kyungsoo chews a little at his lower lip. He looks small and apprehensive as the sunlight casts shadows around the bed sheets. He’s wearing a t-shirt several sizes too big. It narrows his narrow shoulders, and when he looks up again at Jongin, the light catches the tips of his eyelashes, highlights his cheekbones, and Jongin thinks of bathroom lights again. It makes him heady, like an intense shot of déjà vu poked right into his bloodstream, carving a path to his brain.

Jongin feels like he’s reliving a dream, except it’s not a dream—not really. It’s a real moment, lived over and over again since it had happened, and now it stares him in the face once more.

He pushes their foreheads together to close the space, to put skin and skin together. Kyungsoo gasps a little, a small noise at the back of his throat. His mouth starts to form a word. Maybe it’s Jongin’s name, but they’ll never know because Jongin tilts forward and their lips meet, mold, dance.

Kyungsoo is moving back onto the bed and Jongin follows, careful to not fall on him and agitate the wound. He’s impatient, though, intoxicated almost, like he hadn’t realized how much he had internalized Kyungsoo’s scent, the taste of his mouth, since the last time he had experienced it. Kyungsoo is removing Jongin’s shirt with nimble fingers.

Their teeth clash a bit. Their noses knock more than once. Kyungsoo’s kisses travel down to a spot somewhere at Jongin’s neck pulse, and Kyungsoo sucks a mark there. It blossoms dark when Kyungsoo pulls away, and Jongin should worry that his shirt won’t be able to cover it up, but he doesn’t. He’s given up the ability to worry, at this point. In this moment, at least.

Eventually, Kyungsoo settles in Jongin’s lap, head against chest. Jongin plays with Kyungsoo’s hair as their breathing settles. Everything about Kyungsoo is silky—soft strands and smooth skin. But tough. Still as hard as rock. Although, Jongin figures it’s more of a diamond now—the strength still there and precious even in the shadows, but also radiant and even more beautiful in the light.

Kyungsoo’s thighs sandwich one of Jongin’s legs; a warm, welcome pressure that spreads like the crawling heat up Jongin’s neck before, except it’s a blissful sort of heat. Comforting, like an anchor.

 “Why wouldn’t I be?” Jongin whispers again. Kyungsoo laughs, and Jongin nudges Kyungsoo’s ear with his nose.

“I came back because I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Kyungsoo says. He averts his gaze once more, closing his windows, afraid of giving away too much. “Not because EXO offered me a job.”

“What?” Jongin pulls back to watch his expression. It seems unsure.

“I gave EXO the info on the Lucifers in exchange for the job,” Kyungsoo clarifies.

He never needed money. Why had Jongin believed that? Maybe because it was the easier thing to believe, then. He presses his lips into Kyungsoo’s temple. “Why did you take the bullet?” Jongin says. Every time he had closed his eyes over the weeks, he kept seeing Kyungsoo’s body flying towards him, tackling him to the ground. The sound of the gunshot echoes around the walls of his brain. “You idiot, why did you take it?”

“He was aiming for your head,” Kyungsoo says. “That kind of shot is fatal.”

“But  _why_ , Kyungsoo?”

“It’s Christmas,” Kyungsoo mumbles, sounding exasperated and uncomfortable—two firsts. “Everyone’s heart grows a little on Christmas.”

Jongin smiles. “It wasn’t Christmas, then, though.”

“God. You’re relentless, Jongin,” Kyungsoo sighs. Jongin can’t stop the pool of heat in his chest. Wrapped around Kyungsoo’s silky voice, Jongin’s name always sounds different; the feeling of coming home after a hard day—like finding shelter in a storm. “You know why. Don’t make me say it.”

“If I kiss you more, will you disappear again for a year?” Jongin says.

It’s scary that everything about Kyungsoo is unpredictable, that Jongin won’t know what will happen tomorrow. Jongin isn’t used to feeling this out of control. But he figures, neither does Kyungsoo.

And maybe Jongin won’t tie anything to this side of his life. But maybe D.O. is more than just those two letters. He’s also Kyungsoo, and that’s what Jongin is going to tie himself to instead.

Kyungsoo laughs, eyes curving up to meet Jongin’s.

“That depends on how well you kiss me.”


End file.
